The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

Walk Home James

I peel the street light back and the clouds above light up as if reflecting bursts of flak. The shapes shift into things I've seen. And all the things that I can't ever unsee, are looking back at me with dead eyes and murdered smiles. They beg and whisper me to stay a while, to stay a child and drift amongst them through the wilds. The crooked trees are dead now. They're black on brown against the backdrop of the dusky pre-dawn sky. Like the eyebrow of a black man, stretching out above his eye. Her name was Jasmine, or Jaz, or Jess. She wore her make-up like a whore. I walk on and on, until my legs are sore.